The Student Insurgent Issue 25.2 "The Water Issue"

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Greetings readers,

Opening the Water Issue of the Student
Insurgent, you have made the choice to take a
path towards self-help. You have decided to put
a stop to the ignorance, and courageously face
the reality that is the complicated state of the
world.

After years of taking advantage of our
earth, karma boomerangs global warming into
our faces, as our climate struggles to stay on its
kilter.

One of the first major changes inflicted
on our planet has been the changes in our
water, from the rising of the ocean levels, to the
temperature of the oceans, to the absence of
water.

As the symptoms of the sickness be-
come impossible to ignore, direct action has
become imperative. Unfortunately, most of the
world is run by capitalists and the wellbeing of
our future is on their backburner.

‘This struggle is not an easy one. It is
easy to become overwhelmed by the mass of
global warming. One way of making this fight
more manageable is breaking it down.

Focusing on the “water issue” allows
us to frame climate change in way that we can
more easily grasp. This issue is overflowing with
problems that all deserve our attention because
it is our lives, and our children’s lives. Drinking
water is disappearing, some bodies of water are
shrinking while others are flooding.

‘The way of life we have chosen for our-
selves is not sustainable. We can see it failing
before our eyes, and now is the time to make
change. Every positive action we create brings
us closer to the truth, which is our survival. It is
imperative that we take action.

In hopeful solidarity,
Claire

The Student Insurgent is based in the Survival Center, EMU Suite 1. Come on down and
check out the Radical Reading Room, our cool computers, and our nice people.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

} Letters to the Editor(s)...
When the Earth Becomes Water...3
Water: A Pagan Perspective..8
The Consequences of Tourism...10
Golf is for Dumb Dumbs...10
Climate Impacts to Native People...11
Water is Sacred...12
Indigenous Rights on the Rivers...13
Where Does Violence Come From?...15
Selections from “Ape and Essence”...17
The Pen is Mighty... 19

ee

‘ah Maria Madina, Grace
Ogren, Thomas Walker,
Claire Winograd, Misa Joo,

The Student Insurgent is based out of the University of Oregon in Eugene. We are a radical publica-
tion that seeks to deconstruct the existing social order and facilitate its replacement with one which
is ecologically sound and functions on egalitarian lines. We strive to be an open forum — somewhere
the silenced and oppressed can express their ideas and opinions free from the filters of the main-
stream media. Subscriptions are $15 a year by mail. The Insurgent is distributed freely to UO stu-
dents, the community, and prisoners. The Insurgent encourages its readers and supporters to submit
news and feature articles, short fiction and poetry, cultural criticism, theory, reviews, etc. Graphics,
cartoons, and photos are also more than welcome. If you would like your material to be considered
for publication, just e-mail or snail-mail any content you'd like to submit to the address below. We
reserve the right to edit any submissions for grammar, clarity, or length. Poetry and art will not be
edited or censored in any way. All articles, with the exception of unsigned editorials, solely reflect the
opinion of their author and not necessarily that of the Student Insurgent.

Subscriptionsjare slofasyearby muileihelnsurgentasidistributedsyreelytolU Oystudentsatiercommunityyandiprisonerss

evlhestudentalnsurgent 1228) Universit Of Orevor=: Eugenie) © Rgds ol 340-37 10—-stidentinsH)sent@eniail: COM>

Peat
WHO??, SHALL SPEAK FOR
OUR SURVIVORS???
Thursday, July 18, 2013.
Greetings Sisters and Brothers:

My name is minister, Ba-
bayafeu Iyapo-I. In December 1989,
I was among the first busloads of
innocent human beings. Whom
were falsely profiled, targeted, and
secretly transferred- to the then new
PBSP Supermax (SHU) facility. As a
part of a once-secret state sponsored
Involuntary Human Research Ex-
periments. Which were specifically
designed to carry out a most evil
mad scientist schemes of neo-Fas-
cist Genocide, population control,
and Domestic Torture Operations.

Out of a proposed pool of
100 captive prisoners, whom I was
able to personally bear witness to.
Please be advised!!! of the below
factual evidence of state sponsored
domestic human rights violations.

Fact one: From 1989 thru
1995, our daily conditions here,
were so malicious, racist, and hate-
ful. That a First 30% percent of un-
protected men here, proceeded to go
insane. And sonic a person, whom
is insane, cannot possibly speak
for our remaining survivors. Then
who???, is left to speak for us???

Fact Two: From 1995 thru
2000, pour daily ordeals here, were
so antagonistic, predatory, and vio-
lent. That a second 30% present of
un-protected men here, wrongfully
agreed to become a most despised
False witness, snitch, Debriefer,
and coerced Neo-slave of the Secret
Police. And since a person, whom is
amoral outcast, an ethics-less liars,
an admitted traitor, ad a snitch. can-
not possibly speak for our remain-
ing survivors. Then who???, is left to

2 Letters to the Editor(s)

speak for us??? ~ %

Fact Three: From 2000 thru
2005, our daily realitys here, were
so extremely isolated, discrimina-
tory, punitive, and debilitating. That
a Third 30% percent of un-protected
men here, proceeded to commit
a record number of suicides. and
tragically, since ANY person, who is
now deceased. cannot possibly speak
for our remaining survivors. Then
who???, is left to speak for us???

Fact Four: Based on my math-
based evaluations. 30+30+30 would
equal=90% percent. which means, if
you are able to agree, with the above
historical Facts. then behold: Is it,
not True??? that between 2005 thru
2013, there remains a small pools
of still captive Human Survivors of
state sponsored Torture. Whom are
Blessed to Be, "still alive, still sane,
still courageous, ad still committed
enough.” To help draw, write, speak,
and Teach the True Reality-based
Human Horror Storys; “...of our
past 23 plus years, of state spon-
sored Genocide, Population Control,
Torture, and other Domestic Human
Rights violations...”

As such, if ANYBODY ever
asks you/or needs to know more???
about who, is most qualified to speak
for our captive survivors? Then please
feel free to advise them, that the cap-
tive Nazarite Christian Learned Elder
known among our Faithful as, “The
minister, Baba Yafeu lyapo-I.” Is one
of the chosen few 10% percent, of still
captive survivors of state sponsored
torture. Whom has Repeatedly prov-
en by his word and actions. That he is
100% percent qualified to help reveal
the Gospel Truths of; “...why/and
how it became absolutely necessary,
for over 30,000 sill captive human

i © “@

beings. To democratically, voluntarily,
and peacefully agree, to participate in
the largest recorded series of Hunger
Strikes, work stoppages, and refusals
to attend school/or other programs-
ever to be reported in the state of
california, as well as across america as
a whole...”

until next time, peace and blessings.

Respectfully submitted,
minister, Baba Yafeu Iyapo-I.

Day 11 of my complete Liquid Reli-
gious Fast In Solidarity with the Five
Core demands.

Gary Erwin- prison rape
4/24/2013
Dear Sisters and Brothers:

Thank you for issue(s) of
‘Student Insurgent; received v24 #3.1
previous (prison isu?) is still being
held hostage by ‘Big Brother’ Aka.
Media Review dept. I must spend
10% of my time fighting Ist amend/
Media Review battles. Many are won
on appeal- DOCS counts on pris-
oners to not resist, and or tire and
surrender - delay, deny, and discour-
age... A default ‘NO’ to every re-
quest/ point, forcing every prisoner
to expend time/resources to (re)fight
same battles over and over.

As of August 2013 PREA
(Prison Rape Elimination Act) na-
tional standards for state(s) DOCS
will go into effect. While this marks
progress in all too long fight for
human rights (even for incarcer-
ated ‘humans’) this will only become
meaningful if prisoners and our
outside supporters stand up and hold
our respective DOCS to the federally
mandated points of these standards.

While any prisoner is at risk

for sexual assault/abuse, GLBTQI
prisoners are targeted at higher rates,
3 to 4 times more than ‘straight’ pris-
oners. Through personal experience
as a sexual violence survivor, and
currently reviewing PREA standards
- I've learned that the pivotal weak
point in pursuing post sexual assault
support services is; ‘documentation.
Unreported or underreported sexual
assault incidents will delay care and
lead to kafkaesque ‘groundhog day’
cycle of repeated security (intrusive
and insensitive) interviews each time
prisoner sexual assault survivor says
words: ‘sexual assault’ while seeking
recovery services.

Interested parties are encouraged to

request (free) copy of standards from:

PREA Resource Center

National Council on Crime and De-
linquency (NCCD)

Suite 500 Oakland, CA 94612
ATTN: Ms. Sarah True

Further comprehensive info and sup-
port for survivors can be found @
Just Detention 3325 Wilshire Blvd
Suite 340 Los Angeles, CA 90010
ATTN: Ms. Cynthia Totten, Esq.
JustDetention.org

I welcome dialogue/interaction on
this issue

Garry Erwin #95B0644
POB 2000

Dannamora, NY 12929
In Solidarity, Gary Erwin

CCF

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* Yphen the Larth
Jsecomes Yp/ater

Words by Sarah Waria Wedina
Act by Anna Cholsky

AC

Ny ee heli Genreone was on a busy street in Rio Piedras, San
Juan. At night, sometimes, there were gunshots. The sounds that ripped off

in the dark echoed of the street beneath my past apartment in Chinatown. At
the end of my brother’s street were stray cats that lived in the green belt be-
fore an extensive intersection of supermarkets and traffic lights. On Thursday
nights, his group would play Rumba on the street corner. His babalao played
the trumbadora. They would alternate la diana and el coro, calling out ancient
songs. The gallo would sing out, and they would chant back, again, and again.
Songs that recognize tradition and the spirits of the island rose up from the
sea, alongside the cracked sidewalks and graffiti. Shadows from the street-
lights at night were painted by an artist to capture the dark. It was there at my
brother's first floor apartment that we all contracted dengue fever. First it was
Dagiiao, my past love, who had become my brother's respected friend and co-
founder of their Rumba and Hip Hop collective. Then it was Benito, my broth-
er, who came down with the fever. Lluvia, our youngest sister, took care of him,
before I arrived with my daughter to San Juan.

There were two weeks of our skin sweating in the apart-
ment, the fan perpetually circulating city air, a layer of
grime on the red tiled floor. There were two weeks of my
brother, sister, and I trying to piece our lives together, of
trying to map the history of my absence back into the lines
of our palms. Then, Lluvia left on a plane back to Seattle.
That night, I lay on the futon couch as Benito played the
quinto on the corner with his Rumba group. Emblem be
vele va bele va. I felt my body rise higher, and higher into
an alternate state of fever. Emblem be vele va bele va. A few
times, I felt my brother’s babalao come into the apartment
from the street. His large frame would open the gate, walk
silently past me like a soft pawed jaguar into the kitchen,
and then retrace his footsteps. I sought ice cubes from the
freezer for my temples, and my crown. I felt the heat of
dengue take over my body, and I almost, in that moment,
welcomed the spell of heat that came from
inside me. It was as though I was being
pulled into a thick dream state, a differ-
ent level of consciousness brought on by
the fever. As though the fever was burn-
ing the past away, and placing me into
the present, into my brother's apart-
ment with the old tiled floors. The front
door to the porch was left open, a lock
on the gate. Emblem be vele va bele va.
The music and drumming came through
the open windows, and the door left ajar.

The next day Dagiiao came for me and my
daughter in his borrowed car. We decided to drive
to El Yunque, the sacred rainforest. We went, first,
along the complicated car packed freeways of San
Juan, through the multi-lanes that often
remind me of the winding freeways of
Los Angeles. Further out, on the side of the
road, we stopped to buy fruit from a vendor,
then continued our journey, until we took a A
right onto a road that winds upward. There
we stopped by a turnoff, inside the ver-
dure. Inside the humidity, we made our way
down a short pathway to the river. My fever
was taking over my body again. I felt the heat rise

up inside me. As Dagiiao played with my daughter by the
shore of the river, I lay down on the smooth ancient stones.
I let my bare arms be cooled by the roundness of the stones
beneath me. I felt my fever rest inside me. I closed my eyes
to the blue sky. I listened to the river.

Iheld the smooth stones in my hands, and pressed them
against my fevered wrists. Then a man came out from the
river. His skin glistened with water. We were the only ones

€2t

at the riverbank, except for him. He had been swimming,
after harvesting ortiga, fresh nettles, in the rainforest.
Dominican, his Spanish had a slightly different curve
around his words than Dagiiao’. He said my daughter
looked like his daughter, both brown with their African
hair. I lay back down on the smooth rocks. He told me
that the river is medicine. That I should swim. I had not
brought my bathing suit. I had not packed anything, ex-
cept myself and my daughter into the car. And the fever
that followed behind.

‘The sounds of the river took back over. After the man
left, Dagiiao, my daughter, and I walked down below the
bridge to be further sheltered from the eyes of anyone
who might drive by on the narrow curving road above.
‘The bridge was old concrete. It spilled light shadow over
the river. I stripped from my clothes, and walked my
fevered body in. The water and me, we met there. I let the
waters come back up and over my hips, my shoulders,
ntil I submerged myself below the water, below
the shadow of the bridge. I came back up
joating there. | felt the fever being pulled
from my body.

hat had held us together that long. We
ent to the emergency room hospi-
tal, and sat, hours in the overcrowded
waiting room. I went back into the
allway to have my temperature taken. My
fever persisted. We could have passed the
night waiting for an overworked doctor to
attend me, but the wait was long.
- We abandoned the hospital. We

both knew that the river was
Ie) stronger medicine for the fever
still burning away inside me,
stronger than the white mammoth
hospital with sterile plastic chairs lined
in uncomfortable rows. My bones had begun to ache. My
skin was flushed and hot. My bones were weak inside my
body, as though the very skeleton inside me had been
touched by the fever. Eventually the dengue left my body,
and I left San Juan. My daughter and I boarded a plane
back to Mexico City at the end of October, then took the
night ride to the mountains. That was two years ago.

High in the mountains, the months leading up to the end
of October are the rainy season. The time of rain, when
all the water comes. When the land turns bright viridian.
When the seeds planted by the campesinos are brought
to green by the sky. In September, my daughter and I
moved closer to the river on the edge of town. The rains
were still coming a month ago, and even tonight, the
grass is wet beneath my feet when I step outside to search
the sky. A week after we moved into our rented house by
the river, the road caved ina
few houses down. Below the
road, men had been excavat-
ing land, preparing to build
a new house. The waters that
had fallen had made the earth wet and heavy. The waters
soaked the earth. And when the earth shifted from the
weight, the earth buried two men.

My soft gray moccasins thudded against the wet red clay
and stones that led from the site back to my house. I ran
for my shovel and gave it to one of the other workers. He
was young and his eyes were full of fear. There were many
men shoveling, working against time, trying desper-
ately to unbury the two men. The ambulances came, the
police, the fire department. All of the people who live in
the barrio stood in vigilance as the men shoveled franti-
cally. I felt a tightness in my chest. One of the women
who herds her black mountain sheep in the grass across
the street from our house passed by, her walk slow. Mari.
A diminutive for Maria, my name. This mountain town
of women and children with the name Maria. Marux in
tzotzil.

When Doja Mari walked past me that day, she paused
to speak with me. She grows ancient with the rains, but
her voice sounds like that of a small child. Her two long
black braids fall down her sides, her hair parted with a
thick stripe of gray. She wears the traditional long black
woolen skirt, and speaks mostly tzotzil. Her bell like
voice crossed the short distance between us. I had held a
stone of heaviness in my chest, waiting for the men to be
unburied. She said, her soft voice filled with regret and
clarity, “Ya se murieron.” They have already died. In that
moment, I knew it was true. The tightness in my chest
expanded, and then I took a breath. Although the work-
ers were still frantically digging, the two men buried be-
low were standing as light shadows on the mound of dirt
above the crowd. Perhaps too, they stood on the jagged
piece of road that had not fallen, watching the efforts of
the entire barrio to seek back the bodies their spirits had
already left behind.

‘The waters, they shift the pathway of the river, they soak
the earth, and move the roads. When the waters come,
people pray for their houses, the ones on sloped hills.
When the waters come, everything begins anew. Lake
Atitlan, surrounded by three volcanoes in Guatemala, also
has communities on the hillsides that pray for their homes
when the rains come. There, I met an ancient woman, Ja-
cinta. I sat by the edge of her bed, the floors stained black
from coal. A small fire

The waters, they shift the pathway of the river, pit in the corner of the
they soak the earth, and move the roads.

room was left unlit.
Her bony hand held in
mine like a resting deli-
cate bird, we claimed our friendship. She said to me, “Que
dice tu corazén?” What does your heart say. I carried her
words with me when I left the next morning. I took her
words with me as the boat sped across the lake in early
daylight, as the volcanoes loomed up against the bright
sky. I carried her words back to the mountain town.

High in the mountains, water is powerful in a different
way from my grandmother's island, Borinquen. In the
mountains of Southern Mexico, we are far from the ocean.
Instead the waters are brought from the sky. In Puerto
Rico, and in Cuba too, where I learned my Spanish, grand-
mothers leave offerings for Yemaya. They leave sugarcane
and molasses and seashells on their alters for her. Our last
trip to San Juan, more than a year ago, I swam into the
ocean with my daughter. A full children’s moon rose in
the still bright sky. Rumba was on the corner. My brother
was there, his voice floating along, calling back. From the
ocean I could hear them. Emblem be vele va bele va. Their
rhythm honored the sea, Yemaya.

The next morning, I packed my suitcase. I said goodbye
to my father, to our family, to the sea, and the salt. To the
dinners Bell and Lluvia had prepared of yuca, tostones,
and fried pana. To the warmth of the sky at night. I al-
ways feel as though I am leaving my grandmother behind
when I leave San Juan, as though her spirit had decided
to return to the island of her birth, after she had left her
body. I packed my daughter’s clothing into my suitcase,
and made the bed. It was the only time leaving San Juan
that I did not say goodbye to Dagiiao. He was still there,
claiming the earth sounds in his backyard, strumming his
guitar, but the trip had been about my family. And about
the separation of Dagiiao from me. My daughter and I
flew back to Mexico City, and then made the night ride a
day later back to the mountains.

In the mountains, I have been receiving letters from a woman
in Mexico City. She was born in an old gold mining town,
high in the mountains not far from Mexico City, where the
forest meets the Sierra. I was born by the sea, near a port : H E
where ships dock, where the sea is gray like the sky. Tonight & Fisgiege 7
after the dome overhead became dark, and the sky had wept, FACTS ‘ABOUT i
she said that I should rest as the rains came to my earth. WATE woe (4
Spanish is poetic. The words open up, and we speak about : 4 pte

letting the rain wet the earth. That is how the months of rain
fill our words, our communications, our thoughts. That is the
way we bless each other from a distance with our words until
we meet. There is uncertainty, but also a strong chord of trust.
Trust in the malachite mountains that rise up from outside
the adobe wall, which shelters a small garden. Trust that the
rains will continue to fall when they need to fall. I choose to
trust in their strength rather than rise up in fear as they shift
the earth each season with their current from the lake-sky.

TH APPROXIMATE RATIO.OF, WATER
TO LAND ON THH EARTH’s SURFACE Is
70% TO 30%, RESPECTIVE
OF THAT, AN ESTIMATED 10% 01
TOTAL WATER IS FRESH WAT
Pa slae S
THE APPROXIMATE PERCENTA‘ G
ATER IN THE. HUMAN BODY IS 70°

During the time of dengue in San Juan, after I had recovered GFVHAT, ABOMT 1 nee SERFERO
from my fever, I returned again to the rainforest. The Do- - SPINAL FLUID- FRE (WOTES.
minican man who had come from the river, invited Dagiiao, a at " A |
my daughter, and me to his house there. We went to meet the Bae
man’s family: his partera wife, and youngest daughter, who THE SALINITY OF BLOO
did bare a resemblance to my own daughter. Her dark brown THE SAME AS THE SALL P
skin, her wide eyes of black earth. We went back to the river, ad OCEAN. THE HEART, MO’ (
the six of us, to another entrance inside the rainforest. They OOp HE MOON ir? ee

& f “a +!

say the Tainos, our ancestors, made prayers there. The rain
began to fall, lightly at first. And from far down the river, I
heard song. I heard voices rise up. It sounded like ancestral
prayer. Taino prayer. Yoruba prayer. Perhaps my African an-
cestors had sought shelter not far down the river as maroons
from slavery in the sacred rainforest. The sound was beyond
my ears, almost as though I had scooped up a song from the
past, but it was real, and it was there, further down. I asked
Dagitao if he had heard the song, but he had not. Maybe

it was the small amount of fever still left in my blood from
the dengue. Maybe it was an echo from my people who had
gathered there years ago. Maybe it was the sound of the river
inside my bones.

AS

Sarah Maria Medina is a poet and a fiction/creative non-fiction
writer from the American Northwest. She is Boricua, of mixed heri-
tage. She received a B.A. in Comparative History of Ideas from the
University of Washington. Her essays have appeared in Hip Mama
Magazine, Squat Journal, Mutha Magazine, and Rebelle Society.
She has also been featured in Mutha Magazine’ column, Ask A
Mutha. Her poetry has been printed or is forthcoming in Raspa, a
Queer Latino Literary Journal, As/Us Literary Journal, Semicolon
Journal, and Qu.ee/r Magazine among others. She is also the author
of a chapbook of poetry titled Girl Turnin’ Queen and Other (Bro- 3
ken) Havana Love Stories. She currently resides in Mexico with her : Bi
daughter, and is working on her Havana memoir.

© CLIMATE IMPACTS TO NATIVE

5

PEOPLE IN THE NORTHWEST—
IT's ABOUT WATER

--BY ROBERT SASKATOON--

Native people in the Northwest stand to be impacted by climate change in a variety of ways.
Water is a common theme across these impacts. Tribes such as the Klamath, who liye in a
semi-arid landscape, are likely to face increasingly severe droughts and struggles to access wa-
ter amidst competing demands from farmers, dams and others. However, even coastal tribes
and Native people living in temperate rainforests will be impacted by changes to water. Since
much of the Northwest is wet, issues around water ¢ ¢an be overlooked when discussing climate
justice. Below are two examples of how Native people are being affected by climate impacts to
water, and what they’re doing about it.

NOOKSACK TRIBE AND GLACIAL
MELTING:

Glaciers feed rivers with a seasonal flow of cold,
clean water. Unfortunately, climate change is rap-
idly melting many glaciers in the-Northwest, As a
result, river flows are changing. The Nooksack Tribe
has identified this as a serious concern for salmon
in the Nooksack River, and by extension for Nook-
sack people. Research by the Tribe raises concerns
about how the decline of glaciers will impact.river
temperature, seasonal flows, and snowpack. Given
that salmon rely on cool water to thrive, and Native
people throughout the Northwest rely on salmon to
thrive, glacial melting spells trouble. The Nooksack
Tribe describes climate change-induced harm to
salmon as “unacceptable,” and is strongly advocat-
ing for restoration of watersheds as a way to miti-
gate climate impacts. Addressing pollution and im-
pacts associated with colonization is one Way that
people can take action to mitigate climate impacts
on that precious liquid that gives us life—water!

NISQUALLY PEOPLE PREPARING FOR
ESTUARY CHANGES:

Sea-leVel rise creates a-host of challenges for coast-
al peoples’ health. One often overlooked impact is
how higher sea levels will impact-estuaries. Estu-
ary ecosystems are. vital for many, species, includ-
ing salmon’and many types~of shellfish, Given the
importance of these species to Native people in the
Northwest; any changes to estuaries are a concern.
The Nisqually Tribe is taking a forward-thinking ap-
proach to adapt to sea-level rise by restoring estu-
aries in their homelands, and in doing so are an-.
ticipating how sea-levels may pushvestuaries farther
upriver in the future.

FOR MORE INFORMATION:

Northwest Indian Fisheries Commission. 2011. “Last Dikes Coming Down on the Nisqually River.” http://nwife,
org/2011/08/the-last-dikes-coming-down-along=nisqually-estuary/

Leslie Kaufman. 2011. “Seeing Trends, Coalition Works to Help a River Adapt.” New York Times, July 20.
http://www. nytimes.com/2011/07/21/science/earth/21river.html?pagewanted=all&/r=0

Also check out this journal, if you can! This entire issue is dedicated to tribal climate issues: Climatic Change.
October 2013, Volume 120, Issue 3.

ty

—~S

“WATER
IS
SACRED’

‘The Student In-
surgent interviews
Dania Colegrove,
Hoopa, in her stop
in Eugene en route

to oppose the Mega-
Igad Transport in
Eastern Oregon.

12

Student Insurgent: What are your general thoughts
about water, its role in Hoopa people's lives, the struggles
to protect water, and the struggle to uphold the rights of
the Hoopa Tribe?

_ Dania: Water is sacred, It is a scary thought that some-
~~ time there may not be any water in the river. All aspects
x , of the tribe rely on water. Water is the river. The highway.

___ Water is our shopping center. We gather the materials

= for our baskets from the water. Water is our culture. We

use water to bring balance to the world with our World

Renewal Ceremonies. Water is our Life. Everything de-

pends on water. Everything needs water. Animals, trees,
* the people cannot live without water. Water is just like air.

2 You've got to have it to live.

e Our biggest struggle today is to save water from going
south. The biggest water thief in the United States, West-
land’s Water, has its eye on Northern California water.
Not just the Hoopa tribe, but all northern California
tribes should be worried about the peripheral canal and
where it’s going to gets its water. The peripheral canal is
Governor Jerry Brown's big water plan for California to
divert water from the north to the south, which will affect
the Sacramento Delta, one of the biggest estuaries on the
west coast. Oregon, Washington, California, and Alaska
are the only salmon states in the US. It will deplete the
salmon population to divert the Sacramento away from
the Delta. The people in the south are not going to get
any more water than they already get now. The water is
getting diverted to the future development in the desert
and for fracking in California. I just got an email today
from the south telling us they heard that Governor Brown
was selling Trinity River water for fracking. The people

in southern California wont get any more water than
they get now; they are only going to pay a higher price

for their water. The water is going to make Westland’s
richer. Fifty-two percent of the Trinity River goes into the
Sacramento River at the Lewiston Diversion right now.

SI: How has the Hoopa’s connection to the water on the
Klamath Basin affected its relationships with other tribes
and other “stakeholders” on the river?

Dania: Hoopa did not sign onto the Klamath Basin
Restoration Agreement (KBRA) like the other Klamath
Basin Tribes did due to the fact that the Hoopa Tribe
holds the Grandfather Water Rights. The US Government
has a trust obligation with the tribe to insure that the river
would have adequate flow to insure a sustainable liveli-
hood. The other tribes signed onto the KBRA because
they think they do not have those Grandfather Water
Rights, although they do have an inherited right. It’s a “di-
vide and conquer” tactic. As far as whether or not a tribe
has Grandfather Water Rights, even if it is not written
down, it is an inherited right. The Klamath tribe had 35
years of litigation to prove their inherited rights in court.
In 2013 they were able to assert their tribal water rights.
For more information, you can read the Klamath Tribe
website. In 2010, the KBRA bill did not pass Congress.
So currently the stakeholders (tribes, farmers, commercial
fishermen, sports fishermen) have formed a task force and
are trying to re-do the KBRA, reducing the costs so it will
pass this time. Current details can be found on the Klam-
ath Riverkeeper’s website.

SI: Why is it important for “settlers” to respect the rights
of indigenous people in regard to water, the Klamath
dams, and dam removal?

Dania: “What affects one, affects us all. We all live down-
stream.” The river has to be healthy to have a healthy
ecosystem and sustainable fisheries. It is important for
settlers to respect indigenous peoples because they are all
on indigenous lands, forcibly taken by the government.
This is all indigenous land. Learn whose land you're on
and respect it the way it should be respected.

SI: What are your dreams for the Trinity River/Klamath
Basin, the salmon and the Hoopa Tribe?

Dania: My dream for the Trinity River is to have more
flow — we should have 75% and let Westland’s have 25%,
or remove the dam altogether. My dream for the Klamath
Basin and the salmon it would be dam removal to insure
healthy sustainable river and fishery for the next genera-
tions. You can’t eat money and you can't drink oil.

SI: Thank you, Dania.

why is the sea

ing of a thousand streams?

k

= In the days long before the periodic table, there were 5 elements rather
than 118. These elements were not distant theoretical particles but personal fi
U and tangible elements that influenced our lives. These elements were earth, é
fire, air, spirit and of course water. Though chemistry has it’s perks, the
x y alchemical elements contain symbolism that have stood since the dawn of yf
U civilization, through oppression of religion and science. !
Water is the element that represents the power emotions have over us,
the lust, love, fear and hatred that guides our lives. When we think of the
nature of water this makes sense, water flows free and wild as our emotions
do. Water controls all the natfral systems of the world and flows within us. é
Why else would we cry tears of joy and sorrow?
f Throughout my life water has brought feelings of fear. I would have
y night terrors of water filling the room, I never learned to swim. I lived ina
town threatened constantly by a creeping tsunami, fear of the oceans rising,
of the water being unsafe to drink. Worry over catching pneumonia in the rain,
fj of getting electrocuted in the bathtub. I was afraid of drowning in my own
i saliva for chrissake! * i Ul
Water drives every living thing on earth (just examine the livelihood of
a desert versus a rainforest)I suppose this element of control is what brings
the undertones of fear into the game. Water controls where and how we can live
and our bodies entire chemistry. Now corporations tap into that very control
with olympic sized backyard swimming pools, bottled water and wasteful
agricultural models that do us as much good as a fucking hole in our head.
Yes water makes some of the issues that rightfully scare us the most,
but water also makes up something far more powerful. Water is the elixir of
life and the connector of all living things which points us to it’s symbol of
love. Our bodies aré 70% water, it’s the same puddles we jumped in in
childhood bliss, the same tear you wiped away in comfort. The same water that
makes our trees grow, that quenches our thirst and falls effortlessly from the
sky. It’s the water you were rescued from drowning in, that you watched float /
through the sky as clouds, every river you swam in. As a matter of fact, it’s
the very stuff that you pissed out this morning. All of it is the same good ff

old fashioned dihydrogen monoxide, with only time keeping it separate. e
Let the waters of love connect us all and help us remember that we truly

are one being. Don’t let the waters of fear guide your vessel! a
-Grace Ogren He

Vater dives from clouds |

without a parachute, *)
ngs, or Safety net. 4/a-~ |
runs over the steepest

The Consequences of Tourism
on the Yjforlds Ly/ater Supply

=

Mass tourism cannot be sustained. It is a “f Uf i
Go 1S. Ld
water-intensive industry. Under a 4 degree global f°
climate change scenario, 3.2 billion people will face Dumb-dumbs

Asa golfer I experience firsthand the contra-
dictions of participating in the sport. I would be
heaving my heavy golf bag walking 18-holes and
sweating every hit, while watching red-faced, white
haired men speed by me in golf carts, downing

water stress by 2100. Although agriculture is respon-
sible for most of the world’s total water, tourism is
dependent on fresh water; tourists need water when
using any facilities in the hotels or resorts includ-
ing using spas, wellness areas and swimming pools.
Fresh water is needed to maintain hotel gardens and
golf courses, and it is part of food and fuel produc-
tion.

_ Golf is an expensive sport, which makes it exclusive
to people with money and privilege. Part of what
makes it so expensive is the costly maintenance of
ithe golf courses. I played varsity in high school and
raveling around the state, I saw a variety of golf
‘ourses, all of which resembled more a mars land-

‘scape than Oregon landscapes. In Bend, the courses
Qwere especially strange because rolling green per-

fectly manicured lawns were plopped down in the

jiddle of the high desert. You can go anywhere in
he world, and most courses look the same.

Most golf clubs are not interested in mak-
ing their facilities more sustainable. The Environ-
mental Institute for Golf sent a survey to nearly
17 thousand golf facilities in the US. Only 15 were
turned. What the survey found was that golf
courses comprise an estimated 1,198,381 acres of
‘irrigated turfgrass in the US and their total annual
‘\water use is estimated at 325,851.4 gallons of water
per day. Only 12 percent of the golf courses reuse
|water. In Palm Springs, 57 golf courses are main-
‘tained in a desert. Every day each course consumes
'as much water as a North American family of four
uses in four years.
The US Golf Association (USGA) claims
\that they are working to make golf more sustain-
able by improving grasses that require less water,
creating new irrigation systems, and using alterna-
‘tive water sources like storm runoff water. Even
with changes to the system, I believe that golf will
emain unsustainable and exclusive to the elite.

Enough people enjoy the game of golf that if they
spoke up, clubs would have to listen. Golf often

Energy and water use are interlinked; water
is needed for energy production like air-condition-
ing/heating, laundry, running a hotel or resort. It
is estimated that, when you add up the water used
for infrastructure, fossil fuels, biofuels, and food, a
tourist uses 2,000-7,500L of water per day.

Changes in the availability of water can be
detrimental to tourism in a specific area. Countries
like Mauritius and the Barbados have a very small
amount of total natural renewable water resources
but their tourists use more water per day than in |
many other countries. On a regional level tour-
ism negatively impacts dry regions where renew-
able water reserves are limited.

In Bali water resources are diminishes
from overexploitation to meet the increasing de-
mand for clean water for tourist facilities. Eighty
percent of Bali’s economy depends on tourism
and tourism depends on a healthy water supply.
‘Tourism in this country provides 481,000 jobs,
directly employing 25 percent of the workforce
and supporting more than 50 percent of its gross
domestic product.

Unfortunately tourism uses 65 percent
of the islands water supply. Water is being given
to tourism rather than to agriculture for locals.
‘They are experiences salt-water intrusion, land

subsidence and deteriorating water quality.
Rice farmers and other poor marginalized
members of society cannot afford the city
tap-water supply. 1.7 million out of Bali’s 3.9
million people don’t have access to clean water,
Hotels in Bali need 50,000 liters of clean wa-
ter every day.

encourages the preservation of a “gentlemen's
ub” mentality, which is a burden on society
moving forward.

®

onthe riversotioinen California

The destructive processes of colonization have occurred in many forms throughout hundreds of years.
Genocide, theft, disease, poison, and boarding schools are some of the many tactics that colonizers have used to
oppress indigenous peoples all over the earth. One form of violence that is not often recognized is the construc-
tion of infrastructure that disrupts natural processes of the world and ways of life of indigenous peoples.

‘The following is a brief, incomplete timeline of the struggles of two indigenous groups on two different
(but connected) rivers-- the Winnemem Wintu on the Winnemem (or McCloud) River, which becomes the
Sacramento River, and the Karuk, on the Klamath River. There are many other tribes with many different sto-
ries in presently-named “Northen California” and around the world. These are only two. This timeline focuses
on dams as a tool of violence against indigenous peoples, and does not include many other tools of violence

used against indigenous peoples. This does not mean that other forms of violence‘did-notyand:do not, occur,
They did, and they do.

arrive

S ‘Treaty calling nets arg
1851- Cottonwood T salaries 1848" ps sountains
for a 25st sad August 16 xjame" settle
the Wintu, S 0 sre SOP
tor eading’sranch on Cottonwo: 1350S"

creek.

rel 2
us. Senate other tree
3852 Td Treaty aN der
Cotton treaties Wer ed until
Ee don ot ecrecy
jon -
gnneme!
Dance? Lager!
“Las ae
1987 ete wat one protes
tae of Shas mee * smem I
‘pa hateDery OF other ceFemer
war dan eld in sect® izes dares
the wed, only o> jand Author? dams built on
ground over Cleve’ eservation -~
ful
1g93- U allotm! ed righ!
ne issuant \ ents nds- Sh c
' dian: Hote cir traditions) [ sylotments 8
a
. een 1937 _USs -
Winn anjustices cloud RY in removal one
— em : ae begin Temoval of Winters te
oe em from the River,

1993 The Yurok and Hoopa receive a 50%
share of available fish harvest following a
Department of Interior ruling; the Karuk

tribe is not considered to be eligible

2002 Massive die-off of

1952. spawning adult salmon occurs cused
Dan, Pa Tron in the lower Klamath River pave o perso™
Pci Mpeg te 1987-1999 ee yea Pe Ton
aiteess 14° Sling,“ Y) the Winnemem engage e908 Pd OF FE oc ane
Klan! 20k, Th a lawsuit against the Forest give POY anges ‘ror
Maing, ‘ ath Rive Service to stop development of mn: ee and sg!
2d trip ™m hab” a ski resort on Mt Shasta. In a oneal for the iS a
Ula victory for the tribe, the Forest abet rate esthe v -
Service halts the development. ety four HME cart dis
neatly arate of eetimes
esti at 9 690) 08)
cae gaat ca
0"
ath dat
\ ¢
2010 Form’, Festoratio®
\\ an neds
ts are SB}
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‘ommitti 020
four 4ams

) 1944- US. ©,
$17 mittens oe

Indian e

llioin to all

rt of Claims awards

California

enials for chil.
llottees,

aruk continue to fight for
continue to

. a Y salmon runs and t aditi
apes n raditional
basi a for their to right hold ceremony pp of fishing on the river,
srg mocha the pee we tribes face intrusions by
Be me, and against the privatization > ao Water District and other
ae Oliteers/settlers on their 1
vvater for profit: homelands. nis

tribes, please check out these great resources:

‘The Effects of Altered Diet on the Health of the Karuk People”
by Kari Marie Norgaard, Ph.D., November 2005

Dancing Salmon Home,’ a film about the Winnemem Wintu’s journey to
bring the salmon back home to the Winnemem (McCloud) River.

lhttp://www.sacredland.org/PDFs/Wintu_Timeline.pdf

-http://www.klamathriver.org/environmentaljustice.html

http://karuktimeline.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/timeline_final_jun29-
010_34x180_lowres].pdf

ihttp://www.sacredland.org/PDFs/Wintu_Timeline.pdf

Words and Art by Mylece Burton

Where Does
Violence Come
From?

Violence is taught, bred, imitated.
Hours of unemployment, lack of edu-
cation, endless, empty time. Empty
endless hours of TV and flies and fruit.

To teach how to self-educate, to
question if there is something outside
of this world of unmarked hours.

Iam sitting on the sofa with the
pregnant girl, waiting for something to
happen. The whole world is sitting in
front of the TV, staring blankly through
the window of the bus at the man on
the street covered with a plastic bag
who is staring blankly at the needle
in his uplifted hand that is also as far
away as the children on the TV lined
up against a plywood wall with burned
up coke cans and empty lighters. Belly
full of bread and cake and wet dough,
drowsy with boredom.

I have discovered that poverty
is also stagnancy. I always assumed
that those struggling from day to day
to survive would be running around
frantically like ants, and many do. But
there is a stillness of mind, vacancy of
expression, lack of empathy or compas-
sion; where violence begins.

=

In the stillness of time I observe the restlessness of
an unoccupied mind. Endless energy, desire to live, children
desperate for sugar like ants.

She watches ants wrestle leaf pieces through the dust, and
wonders if there are snakes in the water of the river. It is mid-
day in the plaza of the town in the sand dunes by the river.
Salt of the nearby ocean on her lips, sand between her legs is
wet with sweat and she is stuck to the plastic chair when she
tries to stand to leave the bar.

It feels like she is still in the ocean as she walks barefoot down
the street, the push and pull of the waves enhanced by beer. A
man rides by on an emaciated horse, and offers her a ride. He
helps her up, and stupidly she mounts the horse.

Realizing her mistake, she asks to dismount, to turn back
and go home as they make their way slowly along the river,
through the sand dunes. Silently she cries as they go farther
and farther and she loses the guiding sound of the ocean.

‘The river is clear and still, and lined with palm trees. The
horse keeps trying to stop and drink, to enter the cool water
and relieve its’ enormous burden.

Something breaks inside of her and she stops pleading, and
is silent. The world is distorted, mutated, as if she is looking
through the bottom of a glass bottle.

‘They have dismounted and the man is sucking her nipples,
and pulling on her bikini, roughly putting his fingers inside
her.

Something inside her is not afraid anymore; an animal knows
if it struggles and tries to escape the beast will only hold on
that much more tightly. Lying, she tells him she has a boy-
friend in the city that will know, and come after him. Gently,
she tells him she does not love him.

‘The boy goes into a rage, and runs into the water, slapping the
surface with the palms of his hands. The horse follows, and
begins to swim away. While he throws his tantrum, she turns
and begins walking quickly towards the bushes at the base of a
sand dune. He starts to chase her, and as she runs under a tree
she hits a nest of hornets. Some of them cling to her body and
sting her as she stumbles up the sand dune, but most of them
attack him. She knows she can outrun him, and continues
over the dunes until she sees the ocean.

Finally she reaches the ocean and dives in to drown the hor-
nets, the salt stings but the water is warm and so is the sun on
her body as she walks down the beach.

Already she has forgiven him, washed by the ocean.

ution He foresaw that

us by the miracles
all sense of reality.
d slaves of wheels

mselves on being the Conquerors
In actual fact, of course, they

Jibrium of Nature and were about to suffer
jder what they were up to in the century
the rivers killing off wild animals,
‘o the seas burning up an

5 it had taken the whole
inal imbecility- And they

inning of the industrial revo

over-weeningly
that they would soon lose
d, These wretche

a to congratulate
of Nature. Conquerors of nature, indeed!

fad merely upset the equil
s, Just cons!

the Thing- Fouling
rests, washing the topsoil int
um, squandering the mineral

to deposit. An orgy of crim!

and duty
i Y to rob, swi:

0) i , SWI
rn (which is by om!
farthly paradise, Rem el
ato gress’ He might a
ut of the bag at ave

0 be subject to is the
rue as well as false,
power or

state you happen t
that all these gods, t
nflict over prestige:

onalism- the theory that the

d that all other states are f
f juvenile delinquents;

d, the True and

false gods;
and that every co
the Beautiful”

re was Nati

nly true god, an

Have the mentality ©!
de for the Goo

noney is @ crusa

*
THE PEN is MIGHTY,

* by cour! Bartunek
3 AMY, :

A pencil is saving me from insanity. I write to share my joy and halve my pain: My words have hit their
mark and found their true home in you, the reader. I've met my quintessential other; beacon for; bearer of
phrases waxing poetic and turning counter-culture. I'am a writer and in so being experience things with
both hands and swim through the noise of this institution. Now here I am, and island of calm, meditating
in this sea of chaotic noise.
people going nowhere at all but straining at the bit. Always in a hurry, worried they'll miss something.
Anything brings excitement to the inching caterpillar, eating and sleeping, waiting for some great
transformation that will change her into something of otherness. There is a season for the rain. Keep-
ing me hostage in this warehouse of drama-seeking women.
In waiting I have found peace- my calm in the storm. I have found myself beautiful whiling
away in the wonderment of the written word. I have read classic nonconformist literature. I have
found friends in the mail and have spent hours beneath the poet-tree. I have been across the coun-
try hitch-hiking and to Walden’s Pond.

I have found someone with my same voice. He takes the words straight from my mouth (or
pen). At least once a week I am presented with an envelope of flowers- often with works of repro-
duced art on the backs; Picasso and Van Gogh... but no artist can rival the flavor from within. I relish
the salt from his hands, his words. I have been whisked away to exotic locales and neighborhood
coffeeshops. For the hour that I read those pages I can feel the humidity of the Florida air; smell the

lasagne cooking; and feel the brush of his eyelashes when he leans close.

Sometimes we read books together; lofty pieces of literature; Ayn Rand and Edith Wharton.
When I get stumped on a crossword I send it to him and he finishes them off and reassures me that
1 was right, 35 across was “KOALA’ and I shouldn't have doubted myself. I have never been wooed
and won like this and indeed I am won. Unseen forces assure me that his words are authentic and
true, and that his feelings are as true as mine.

I have received xeroxed flowers and bits of verse and prose. On mother’s day I drew his mom a
rose... “Thanks for the boy.” I would like here to copy a year’s worth of letters because the truth therein
is self-evident. I am in the midst of a love story recorded for all the ages to come. An old-fashioned
hand written courtship. I wouldn't trade it for 1000 days of the “freedom” I had before. Enslaved to
drugs and engaged to a man who wouldn't give me eyes to see for fear I would look away from him.
I remember in a jealous rage he rent my journal page from binding. I had written a poem about a
rose. He wanted to know who had given me this rose.

In writing I have found my freedom and my soul. I know now that a man somewhere exists
that will appreciate my poetic ramblings and my spirit. I was in bondage when I could not express
myself, but now, with this pen, I feel at last, free.

Witla

i HLALIAHAL

Fresh from the river
Straight into my toilet
I poop in water

Flushing my poopies
Who cares where they will find home?

They go somewhere else.

This eternal cycle,
body and earth, is broken.
Who else will feed us?

by Thomas Walker

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